


Mystery House

by Aini_NuFire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Halloween, Humor, Hurt Castiel, Light Horror, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 04:14:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5115389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean investigate a tourist attraction that seems to be haunted. But things aren’t so easy when the house takes on a life of its own…and doesn’t want them to leave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mystery House

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Supernatural, or the Winchester Mystery House, which is a real place. Set between 5x13 “Song Remains the Same” and 5x14 “My Bloody Valentine.”  
> Happy Halloween!

Dean stared at the exterior of the Victorian mansion in bafflement. It had all the typical architecture of a house built in the late 1800s: gable roofs, turrets, a corbelled chimney, wraparound porch. And a door on the second story that led to…nowhere. No balcony or even a ledge, just a straight twenty-foot drop to the ground below.

“Um, why?” he asked, gesturing at the white paneled door standing out against the yellow siding.

Sam shrugged. “Place is full of weird stuff like that. The lady who owned the house kept up non-stop construction for thirty-eight years, randomly changing plans on a whim.”

Dean shook his head, glad they weren’t related to the late and certifiable Sarah Winchester. The brothers had read up on the Winchester Mystery House when the case first caught their attention, and if it weren’t for the severity of recent events, Dean might have passed on it altogether. But they were hunters, and this was what they did. So the news of several suspicious accidents that soon escalated to actual deaths had drawn them in on the suspicion of a ghost.

It had started with a chandelier falling loose and clobbering a tourist on the head. Then a groundskeeper got his arm chewed up by a leaf mulcher. Another was electrocuted changing a lightbulb. Finally, a visitor got separated from her tour group and was later found at the bottom of a flight of stairs with a broken neck. The management company had tried to brush it off as a tragic accident…until while in the middle of a press conference, a tour group from inside came running out, screaming, and two more bodies were found inside. That was it for the Mystery House’s Halloween season, and it was now closed until further notice. Or until the Winchesters ganked whatever ghost was wreaking havoc here.

Sam elbowed Dean in the ribs and thrust his chin sharply toward the gravel drive where a wiry man in khakis and a sweater vest was striding toward them. They weren’t dressed in their FBI threads, having not anticipated meeting anyone on the premises. Dean was just formulating an excuse when the man spoke first.

“Are you the ghost hunters? You’re early, but thank god.” The man let out a relieved sigh. “Where’s your gear?”

Dean and Sam exchanged a look. For once their cover could be...their actual job.

Sam cleared his throat. “We’re just taking a cursory look first, uh…?”

“Oh, Tom Danton,” he stuttered, and reached out to shake their hands.

“Right, of course,” Sam said.

Tom kept casting wary glances at the mansion. “So, uh, what do you need? Some of my associates scoffed at bringing you guys in, but they’re willing to try anything to get this place open again. Loss of revenue and all that. Never mind people’s safety,” he rambled.

“You witness any of the events?” Dean asked.

“Just the last one. I was, uh, working in the office when I heard the screams. And the bodies…those poor people.” A shudder rippled down his shoulders.

“Did you feel any cold spots, see anything else strange?” Sam pressed.

Tom’s brow furrowed. “Well, there have been strange noises, creaking doors, moans, stuff like that.” He shrugged helplessly. “But it’s getting close to Halloween and I just thought people were setting up effects.”

“Right,” Dean said. “You the only one here right now?”

Tom nodded, and reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, which he dabbed at his neck with. The weather was unseasonably warm for the end of October, but that was probably California for you. “Huge liability issue.”

“Alright, well, we got this covered. Why don’t you go home and we’ll call you as soon as the place is clear.”

Tom gave a shaky half-smile that looked both reluctant and relieved. “Yeah, okay, I guess I can do that. You already signed waivers.”

Dean arched a brow at Sam. He was guessing those waivers said something like, ‘we won’t sue you if we get hurt getting rid of _your_ ghost problem’. Not that it mattered; the Winchesters were used to the hazards of the job. He just hoped the real ghostbusters didn’t happen to show up too.

Tom reached inside his sweater vest and pulled out two folded brochures to hand them. “Here’s a complete map of the grounds. It could take you hours to find your way out, so don’t get lost. Oh, and um, don’t die.” With that cheerful note, Tom pivoted abruptly and hurried back toward the parking lot.

Dean opened the map, eyes widening at the aerial view of the sprawling six acres. He’d read that the place had 160 rooms, forty-seven stairways, thirteen bathrooms, and six kitchens, but he hadn’t quite been able to visualize it before. “Let’s hope the ghost of Mrs. Winchester isn’t shy.”

Sam scrunched up his nose. “We can’t be sure it’s her. You know, one of the reasons she did all this construction was supposedly to appease vengeful spirits. Maybe she wasn’t _that_ crazy and it’s one of them.”

“Yeah, but if that’s the case, then we’re gonna have a serious problem identifying the culprit in order to burn their bones. And if the spirit’s attached to this place…”

“We are not burning down the mansion!” Sam protested.

Dean shrugged noncommittally. Whatever it took…though judging by the size of this place, that would probably not be a viable option. “Do you think Cas could smite a ghost?”

Sam’s brow creased in thought. “Dunno. We could ask him. At the very least, if it _is_ the ghost of Sarah Winchester, her body was taken back to Connecticut for burial, so we’ll need an express flight.”

Dean pulled out his phone and dialed Cas’s number. After three rings with no answer, it switched to voicemail.

_“I don’t understand, why…why do you want me to say my name?”_

Dean snorted; the wonders of angels and modern technology. He just hoped Cas knew how to actually check his messages. Normally the angel answered right away when Dean called, but it was possible Cas was busy.

The tone beeped. “Hey Cas, Sam and I are on a case in San Jose, California.” He rattled off the address. “We might need some angelic assistance, so call me back when you get this.” Dean hung up and pocketed his cell as he turned to Sam. “Let’s load up.”

Even though it was broad daylight, the property was segregated by a large wall of hedges that separated it from the shopping center across the street and movie theater to the left. And since it seemed people were too scared to come around, that meant the Winchesters could work in relative privacy. They retrieved their rock salt loaded shotguns and iron crowbars from the trunk of the Impala, and then headed inside through the double French doors.

The place was well lit from various windows—it’d have to be considering there were _ten thousand_ of them throughout the manor. But it was clear that the interior of the house was just as whacked as that door to nowhere on the outside. The brothers passed through a kitchen that had a high window which looked up into the second floor, not outside to the garden or a patio, but further _into_ the house. There was also a stairway that went up…all the way to the ceiling.

Dean paused to blink at it. “Bat-shit crazy,” he muttered.

Sam held out the EMF scanner, which was giving off faint readings, but nothing strong yet. Dean had to admit that even with the map, they’d been wandering through so many rooms for the past couple hours that he was hopelessly turned around.

They entered a parlor with polished wood floors, a puffy purple armchair, and matching glass-paned hutches with a china set inside. Dean pulled up short as the temperature plummeted, and the EMF scanner started beeping erratically.

“Showtime,” Dean murmured. He and Sam moved to the center of the room, backs to each other as they scanned the edges of the room. There was a flicker in the corner, but before anything made itself known, the cabinet doors on the hutch swung open violently. The china inside rattled and then launched from their resting place. Dean threw his arm up to shield his face as ceramic plates and teacups pelted him hard enough to shatter.

“Show yourself you coward!”

The air wavered in his peripheral vision, and Dean whipped his head around as a wisp of grey smoke coalesced into the figure of an old woman. _Bingo_. Dean brought his shotgun up, but before he could fire a shot, the ghost flew at him, a gust of wind and invisible force slamming into his chest and knocking him flat on his back. The air almost punched from his lungs, and he rolled quickly. Several plinks signaled that some china shards had just impaled the floor where he’d been. A sharp report cracked the air, and the ghost’s shape vanished in a burst of rock salt.

Sam stood with his shot gun braced against his shoulder, expression simultaneously determined and worried. “You okay?”

“Peachy.” Dean pushed himself to his feet. The rock salt rounds would only buy them a short time. “Guess it’s the old lady after all.” His phone started ringing, and he answered it with a grumpy, “Hello?”

“ _Where are you?_ ”

Dean couldn’t resist scowling. “You need to learn to check your messages, Cas. I left you the address.”

There was a huff of breath on the other end that could have been exasperation. “ _Yes, I know. I’ve been searching the mansion for the better part of an hour, but since I can’t sense you and Sam…_ ”

Dean sighed, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Right, sorry. We’re, uh, in a parlor…”

“ _I’ve been to three already; you’ll have to be more specific._ ” Boy, did Cas sound grouchy.

“Uh, it’s got a piano.”

“Organ.”

He shot Sam a dirty look.

“ _Unless you plan to start playing it, that doesn’t help me,_ ” Cas grumbled.

Dean rolled his eyes, stormed over to the piano with vertical metal flutes, and pushed his palm to several keys, which resulted in an offensive belch of notes. Sam shook his head and pulled his map out to study it, but a moment later, there was a swish of air and Cas appeared, phone still pressed to his ear.

“I wasn’t aware there were any labyrinths within urban developments,” the angel said in lieu of a greeting. “Are you hunting a minotaur?”

Dean took a second to digest such things apparently existed. “Not quite. The whacked out woman who built the place is haunting it. The problem is her bones are in Connecticut. Think you could wing over there and burn ‘em for us?”

“Here’s the address,” Sam spoke up, and held out his phone for Cas to read.

The angel canted his head. “Very well.” And then he was gone.

Dean shrugged. “This should be easy.”

Sam pulled a bitch-face, which, really, Dean deserved; he shouldn’t have jinxed it. The windows exploded in a shower of glass, tiny shards cutting across Dean’s exposed face. On instinct, he swung the shotgun up and blasted a hole through one of the hutches, adding a smattering of wood splinters to the debris on the floor. The air wavered, and a punch of wind smacked his chest hard enough to send him skidding backward into the wall.

Sam fired off two more rounds, trying to track the wispy film of smoke that teleported around the room with instantaneous speed. All the keys on the organ slammed down at once, assaulting their ears with the raucous blare. Something flickered next to it, and Sam ended up shooting off several of the metal flutes. His face scrunched up in response. Dean just gave his brother a look; they could mourn the antique later.

He dropped his shotgun in favor of the crowbar, and simply started swinging at any slight disturbance on the air. When a breeze wafted over his neck, he spun around, brandishing the rod.

“Dean!” Sam shouted.

Too late, the iron bar collided with Cas’s arm, which he’d thrown up to block the blow. It was like striking granite, the impact vibrations rattling up through Dean’s bones, yet Cas did step back with a grunt.

“Shit!” Dean exclaimed, his breath puffing out white. “What the hell, man?”

Cas’s gaze snapped to the side as the old woman solidified, sallow skin hanging in bags under dark eyes. Her visage flickered, but before she could attack, Sam shot her with rock salt, and she dissipated. The temperature briefly returned to normal.

Sam then turned to Cas worriedly. “What happened?”

He furrowed his brow. “I burned the bones. Sarah Winchester, wife of William Wirt Winchester, died September 5th, 1922.” His troubled gaze drifted to the spot the ghost had last been. “Perhaps you have the wrong spirit.”

“Friggin’ awesome,” Dean muttered, rubbing his wrist, which had taken the brunt of hitting Cas. His frown deepened when he noticed the angel holding his own arm a little close to his body. “That didn’t actually hurt you, did it?”

Cas shifted his weight in discomfort. “Temporarily.”

“What?” Sam looked at him in alarm, and stepped forward as though to check for broken bones, which was simply ridiculous when talking about an angel. Except, after their time-traveling disaster, Sam had been a bit more concerned about Cas potentially getting injured since he was cut off from Heaven.

“It was still mending,” Cas tried to explain in that ‘it’s-really-no-big-deal’ tone that even Dean had to admit was total bullshit. After all, _“it’ll weaken me”_ ended up translating into “probably kill me, or at least leave me in a coma for a few days.”

“Mending from _what_?” Dean asked with a dangerous edge to his tone.

Cas looked uncomfortable as Sam gently prodded his arm, though whether it was due to pain or being put on the spot, it was difficult to tell. “I had a run-in with some angels,” he reluctantly admitted. “That’s why I was unable to answer your call. But my injuries were mostly healed by the time I found you. The bone didn’t even re-break; it merely…hurt.” He forced the last word out as though it was distasteful. And, for an angel, it probably was.

Dean found himself clenching his jaw. “You could’ve called us for help, you know.”

Cas quirked a brow. “There’s nothing you could have done.”

Dean let out a long, low breath so he wouldn’t end up biting the angel’s head off. “Yeah, well, at the very least you could crash with us while you recover. We’re as safe a place as any with the Enochian warding on our ribs.”

Cas didn’t say anything, but there was a thoughtful pinch in his forehead.

Sam sighed, looking as though he also had something to say on the matter, but instead chose to focus on the immediate problem. “What do we do about the ghost if burning the bones didn’t work?”

“Can you smite her?” Dean asked Cas. The way the angel immediately avoided his gaze sent off warning bells in Dean’s mind. He raised his brows expectantly.

Cas let out a huff. “I can’t smite anymore.”

Sam blinked. “What? Since when?”

“I assume since I was cut off from Heaven, though I only received confirmation when I tried to smite a demon in Carthage and it didn’t work.”

Oh, Cas was so getting a major thrashing when they were done here.

“You didn’t think that was something we should know?” Dean accused.

Cas squinted. “It didn’t have any bearing on you until now.”

“Bearing on _us_...” Dean sputtered. If he didn’t think it’d break his hand, he’d be sorely tempted to punch Cas right then. Maybe throttle him—if he wasn’t also worried he could actually hurt the angel at this point. “What if you ran into demons on your God hunt?”

“I still have my angel blade.” Cas cocked his head in a mixture of confusion and slight indignation. Jeez, he really didn’t get it.

“I don’t suppose an angel blade can get rid of a ghost permanently?” Sam interjected.

“I...don’t know. I’ve never attempted to slay a spirit with one.”

“Great, first time for everything,” Dean said with false cheer. He exchanged a look with Sam; they needed to give Cas a serious talking-to when they were done. Sam met his eyes with silent agreement.

“Okay, I remember reading that Mrs. Winchester’s favorite room was the seance room, so maybe we should try looking for her there. Maybe she’s even bound to an object and we can burn that instead,” Sam said.

Seance room, of course. Shaking his head, Dean pulled out his map in an attempt to locate their new target. It took several minutes not only to spot the room, but also to find a route to actually get to it. They navigated their way down halls and corridors, through rooms linked like cabin cars on a train, and over winding staircases, one of which had steps that were only two-inches high. Dean sniggered as Sam had to not only hunch over from the low ceiling, but the steps were barely wide enough to support his lumbering feet.

“You look like the giant from the beanstalk.”

Sam tossed a dark glower over his shoulder. “The woman had arthritis, alright? That’s why the steps are so small.”

Dean smirked. “Whatever.”

Cas quirked a confused brow and glanced around. “What beanstalk?”

Dean was about to throw back a retort, but was distracted by the stairs coming to a plateau...and then descending again back to the same level. He rolled his eyes. At this rate, they’d be here all night.

Cas paused at the bottom of the stairs, casting a befuddled look back at the corridor. “This seems highly impractical.”

“Understatement,” Dean agreed. He noticed the temperature beginning to drop, but there were no other signs of the ghost making itself known yet.

Sam approached a closed door and carefully opened it. “This is it.”

“You sure?” Dean asked, following his brother inside. The room’s color scheme was a matte blue and white in alternating vertical panels. Unlike the other spaces, though, there was some cotton cobwebs spread across a small table in the corner, dotted with rubber spiders. Black curtains covered the windows, dimming the room significantly, and a pentagram had been painted on the floor in what looked like fresh black paint.

“Looks like someone was getting ready for Halloween,” Dean commented, moving to the corner table where some plastic bags containing other decorations sat. “I don’t really see any original objects here though that might be bound to our ghost.”

Cas stood at the edge of the pentagram, studying it intently. “A spell has been activated here.”

Dean stiffened. Spells meant witches, and he hated witches.

“What kind of spell?” Sam asked.

Cas’s brows knit together. “I’m not sure…it was activated by blood, but such a small amount…”

Dean spotted a pair of scissors on the table, one tip streaked with a trace of dried blood, hardly enough to suggest intent. “Why do I get the feeling it was an accident?”

Sam stepped closer to survey the scissors. “Okay, but it’s gotta be a pretty weak spell, right? I mean, it’d need more blood to gain power.” He turned to Cas for confirmation, but right then the walls started to shake and the house let out a deep groan.

Cas’s eyes widened. “There’s no ghost here. It’s the house. Somehow the spell brought it to life.”

Well _that_ didn’t sound good. Dean took a step toward the pentagram, intending to deface it and hopefully break the spell, but the floor lurched beneath his feet, and he staggered to maintain his balance. The floorboards rattled, juddering violently against the nails holding them down, and a great moan rumbled around them.

Dean’s next breath came out in a cloud of white as the temperature plummeted yet again. This time it wasn’t just the old lady’s ghost—or fake ghost—that appeared, but several phantasms descended from the above. Three broke formation and headed straight for Sam, propelling him backward out of the room.

“Sammy!” Dean stumbled after him, but the door slammed shut in his face. He thought he heard Cas make a sound, but Dean suddenly couldn’t see through the maelstrom of wispy specters swirling around his head. Something heavy rammed into his chest, knocking him back into the wall. But instead of hitting it and bouncing forward to the floor, the wall panel gave under his weight, and then Dean felt himself falling backwards, tumbling down a tight tunnel of short stairs. When he finally hit a flat surface, he rolled a few feet before dropping into a hole in the floor and landing flat on his back. He blinked black spots from his vision just as a panel of wood loomed above him and came slamming down across the hole.

Dean pushed against the board, but it was as though it’d been nailed in place. He couldn’t move, pinned by beams and struts on all sides. He was trapped beneath the damn floorboards. Dean pounded his fists, attempting to break through, and shouted for Sam and Cas. Was it his imagination, or was the air getting thinner? It was dark, only a few shafts of light poking through slits in the boards. The thin rays highlighted the haze of dust, and Dean suddenly flashed back to waking up in a grave after returning from Hell.

_Don’t panic, don’t panic_.

But the more he struggled and clawed at the wooden boards, the more frantic he became. Sam and Cas weren’t answering. Dean was buried alive, and there was no way out.

* * *

Sam flailed his arms as the spirits pushed him down the hall into another room. When their invisible force finally let up, he staggered upright, taking in his surroundings. He was in a sun room, with skylights and one whole wall made of windows that looked out on the orchards. Another wall was also paned glass, but looked into the hallway. A few potted plants sat on some stands or the floor, soaking up the rays of the late afternoon sun.

Sam surged toward the door and yanked on the handle, but it wouldn’t open. “Dean!” He pounded on the door. “Cas!”

The light in the room began to darken with a red hue, and Sam twisted around, stomach clenching in horror as blood trickled down the windows, coating the glass and casting an eclipse-like pall throughout the sun room. He sidestepped and slipped. Glancing down, he found more blood bubbling up through the floor like oil. The scent assaulted his nose like a physical punch. It smelled like demon blood.

“No, no, no.” It couldn’t be real. It was just the house haunting him, creating visions. Sam backed up and slid through the slick unguent again. His hand shot out to catch himself against the wall, and made contact with a cold, slick substance. Jerking back, he held his palm up and found it glistening with crimson.

His breaths were coming rapid and shallow now as Sam threw himself at the door with renewed fervor. Yet it still wouldn’t budge. His shoes squelched in the growing puddle pooling across the floor. He had to get out before he drowned in it, before even one drop splashed into his  mouth. Sam couldn’t go down that road again, couldn’t let Dean down.

_Dean_. Sam had to get back to his brother. Pulse racing to the point his neck throbbed, Sam finally wrenched away from the futile door, snatched up one of the cast iron planter stands, and swung it as hard as he could at the window facing the hallway. The glass shattered, and Sam let his momentum carry him through until he smacked his shoulder against the opposite wall. He sucked in air as deeply as he could in an effort to dispel the tang of blood lingering in his nostrils. Frigid fresh air practically burned his nose and throat, and when his vision finally managed to focus, Sam blinked in bewilderment at the sun room, brightly lit once again. There was no sign of blood anywhere. Somewhere deep in the bowels of the mansion, something groaned with the pangs of birth or death.

Sam staggered back toward the seance room. “Dean! Cas!” He reached the door, but it had somehow warped, parts of the wall melded with the door. The knob itself seemed to have twisted and grown into a wrought iron trellis crisscrossing up and down the entire length of the wall. A weird glow emanated from beneath the door. Dammit, why wasn’t anyone answering him?

Sam forced himself to take a step back and breathe. This entire place was one big labyrinth, everything intersecting at several places. So there had to be another way into the seance room. Tearing himself away with a brief prayer that he wouldn’t get lost, Sam took off down a side corridor. He tried to keep himself oriented with the direction of the seance room, even as the increasing creaks and moans echoing through the walls sent chills up his spine.

He came to a bedroom on the east side of the seance room—or so he hoped. But there was no other door leading off another direction. Swearing under his breath, Sam turned to leave when a distressed sound reached his ears. He swiveled warily, every muscle tensing in anticipation of being assaulted by a horde of ghosts again. The noise was somewhat faint though…and eerily human.

There was a thump-thump-thump, weak in comparison, and yet reminiscent of Sam’s frantic efforts to escape a locked room. He whipped his gaze around, trying to pinpoint the source. It certainly seemed like it was coming from the bedroom, but where... He felt a vibration through the soles of his feet. What the…? Then he heard a choked cry, and his blood ran cold.

Dropping to his knees, Sam started knocking on the floorboards. “Dean?”

Now there were scuffing sounds. “ _Sam_?”

“Dean!” _Holy shit_. “Hang on!” Sam whipped his gaze around for something he could use to pry the floorboards up, and spotted a fire poker next to the hearth. Snatching it up, he quickly returned to the place he thought his brother was buried, and rammed the curved edge between the slats. “Dean! Don’t move! Lie still while I get these up.”

He thought he heard a stifled sob, which made his chest constrict and his adrenaline pump faster. One nail wrenched loose, and Sam frantically started on the next one. He felt a ripple on the air, and suddenly the four poster bed jerked and skidded across the room. The corner smacked his shoulder, throwing him onto his side. Cursing, Sam scrambled up and shoved his weight into it, pushing it back. The walls rumbled around him, but Sam ignored it as he redoubled his efforts to free his brother.

He finally got one board up, snapping it in two as he yanked it away. Dean’s face was covered in dirt, and he squinted as dust sprinkled down on him. Then he was trying to push himself up, and Sam had to shove one hand on his chest forcefully.

“Dean! I’ve almost got it, just hold it together a minute longer.” He felt guilty for yelling. Hell, if he’d been buried alive, he’d be mindlessly flying out at the first chance he got. But if he didn’t create enough room first, Dean could cut himself up pretty badly on the splinters.

“I’ve got you, man, just breathe.”

Dean’s chest was heaving, on the verge of hyperventilating no doubt, but he gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as he let Sam work. When the hole was finally big enough, Sam reached down and gripped his brother’s arm, hauling him up. Dean pushed himself out the rest of the way and dropped to his knees on the floor.

Sam clamped his hands on Dean’s shoulders, terrified by the minute tremors running through them. “You’re okay. You hear me?”

Dean nodded slowly, and Sam watched with relief as his staunch older brother composed himself. “I’m good. You?”

“Yeah.” Sam glanced around the room, on edge waiting for the next surprise the house wanted to throw at them. “We gotta break this spell somehow.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck as he got shakily to his feet. “I say we try destroying that pentagram since it’s the focusing object.” He frowned. “Where’s Cas?”

Sam’s mouth tightened. “I don’t know.” Had the haunted mansion trapped the angel somewhere too? Or was he just lost in this place since he couldn’t sense the Winchesters? “I tried getting back into the seance room, but the door’s completely blocked. How’d you get here?”

Dean’s brow furrowed as he tried to work past his trauma and remember. “Secret passage, I think.”

Sam straightened eagerly. Right, this place was full of them. But he didn’t see where Dean could have come out of into this room. Certainly not the floor… There was a wardrobe on the wall to their right, one door hanging open on its hinges. Curious, Sam moved closer and swung the door fully open. Sure enough, there was a set of stairs in the back of the wardrobe leading up.

“We better not end up in Narnia,” Dean muttered.

Sam didn’t even bother responding with a bitch-face, and instead took a deep breath and moved in. The space was tight and narrow, and he scuffed the top of his head on the ceiling multiple times, but managed to bite back any grunts or curses, lest he draw the mansion’s attention. He had to hope its ‘spirit’ or whatever wasn’t omniscient.

There was a vertical crack in the wall ahead, a weird mixture of bright white light and glowing red suffusing from the other side. Exchanging a look with Dean, Sam steeled himself, and the two burst through the wall panel back into the room. Both came to an abrupt stop at the sight that greeted them. Cas was on the floor, bound by numerous cords that looked like sizzling white plasma. They coiled around his arms, legs, and torso, effectively strapping him down in the center of the pentagram, which was also glowing, albeit in red. Cas had gained a few cuts, and trickles of blood were slowly leaking onto the floor where the pentagram appeared to be lapping it up, the crimson lines pulsating with each absorption.

Oh, this was so not good.

“Cas!” Dean surged forward, but before he could get close, the shadows in the corners of the room suddenly swelled, spilling out like solid entities. They washed over Dean in a cascade, swallowing him whole.

Sam’s heart seized. “Dean!”

Cold fingers wrapped around his throat, choking off his next cry. Sam gasped and clawed at the pressure, but it was intangible. Spots burst across his vision as his lungs struggled to take in oxygen. He stumbled forward, and in the next step dropped to his knees. He couldn’t give up though. Crawling across the floor, Sam hauled himself toward the pentagram. Cas turned his head, glazed blue eyes full of pain meeting Sam’s. He wanted to assure Cas that he’d get him out, but he still couldn’t draw breath. Using the last of his strength, Sam reached back and drew out Ruby’s knife, and jammed the tip into one of the pentagram lines.

A high-pitched shriek split the air, and the invisible fingers around Sam’s throat suddenly let go. He slumped further, gasping in precious air. The floor and walls juddered, and Sam managed to raise his arm and stab another anchor point in the diagram. Something screeched, and a great bellow shook the foundation of the house. The cords holding Cas seemed to dim slightly. Or perhaps that was Sam’s oxygen-starved brain losing the ability to focus. He hacked at the pentagram, carving up splinters that scored red streaks across his knuckles.

Cas started trying to move, so maybe his bonds were weakening. He managed to get his angel blade out from his coat, and, rolling onto his stomach, proceeded to help Sam gouge out the glowing red paint. The lines started to sizzle and smolder, turning from bright scarlet to scorched ash. The more damage they did, the more the house roared and thrashed around them, the windows rattling in their panes. Sam did his best to ignore it, biting his lip and attacking the paint with full abandon.

Then the cords binding Cas disappeared completely, and a great cry rose up from the depths of the house. Sam grabbed the angel by the shoulders and hauled him off the pentagram moments before the disfigured shape burst into flames. A gust of wind whipped around them, almost blinding Sam, and then died just as quickly. When he looked again, everything had fallen still, and the pentagram was little more than blackened soot. The shadows were gone, and Dean was across the room on his knees, breathing heavily but very much alive.

Sam let go of Cas and stumbled over. “Dean! Are you okay?”

Dean blinked in mild bewilderment. “I think so.” He patted himself down to be sure. “You?”

Sam swallowed hard, his throat bruised but at least not crushed. “Yeah,” he said shakily, then glanced back over his shoulder at Cas. “Did we beat it?”

Cas hadn’t gotten up off the floor yet, and appeared just as winded as the Winchesters. “Yes.” His voice sounded rougher than normal.

“Good,” Dean grunted. “Then let’s get the hell out of here.” He staggered upright, wobbling slightly. Sam reached out to support him, but ended up bracing himself as he stood up too. They retrieved their weapons, helped Cas off the floor, and then set off in search of the exit.

Unfortunately, each turn they took only seemed to bring them deeper into the mansion. Not to mention they were all exhausted, so all those little structural quirks were now causing them to stub their toes on random corners and bump their heads on low hanging chandeliers. It wasn’t until they reached the door to nowhere that Dean sagged wearily against the wall.

“I can’t believe people pay money to see this place. I think I’d rather jump than wander another friggin’ hallway,” he groused, staring morosely at the twenty-foot drop to the ground outside.

Sam was tempted to seriously consider it as well, but before he could, he felt a hand clamp around his shoulder, and suddenly there was no surface beneath his feet. Air whooshed around him in a vortex, one that vanished just as instantly, and the next instant, he realized they were standing next to the Impala. Cas tipped sideways to lean against the car.

“Hey, you okay?” Sam asked worriedly. Cas still looked a little pale, and probably shouldn’t be flying.

“I’ll be fine,” was the gravelly reply.

Sam held back a sigh. “Well, thanks.”

Cas nodded, and straightened as though he meant to fly off, but Dean lashed out and grabbed his elbow. “Nuh-uh, in the car.” It was a testament to how weary Cas really was that he didn’t even bother arguing as Dean opened the backdoor and nearly pushed him in.

“I’m gonna call that Tom guy,” Sam said as Dean went to stow their gear in the trunk. The guy had written his number on the back of the maps, so it was easy for Sam to find. “The ghost is gone,” he reported. “You should be good to re-open as soon as someone does a deep cleaning in the seance room.”

“Cleaning? Wha…” Tom sputtered, but then seemed to think better of his response. “Er, excellent. Where should I send the check?”

Sam’s mouth moved soundlessly for a second. He shouldn’t feel bad taking the ghost hunters’ money; the Winchesters stole and hustled all the time. Besides, they _had_ done the job here. It’d be nice to get paid for once, almost like an honest living. Sam gave Bobby’s address, listened to another round of thanks, and then hung up.

Dean had the first aid kit out and waiting as Sam went around to climb in the front passenger seat. “Those look painful.”

Sam glanced at his slashed up hands. “Had worse.” He accepted the med kit and got in the car. Cas was silent in the backseat. Sam twisted around to get a look at the shallow cuts on Cas’s face and neck. They did appear to be healing, albeit slowly. “Any of the injuries you’d recently healed, um, have a minor setback?” he asked carefully.

Cas shifted his gaze to meet Sam’s. The bland stoicalness used to unnerve him, but he’d gotten better at reading Castiel, and the slight pinch in the angel’s expression meant Cas was debating how to answer—or not answer.

“I appreciate your concern, but my current…wounds…won’t benefit from human medicine.”

Dean looked over sharply, doing his own visual check for injuries. Unfortunately, Sam figured what Cas meant was something more along the lines of wounds to his grace.

“But you’ll be okay with some rest?” Sam prompted.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Dean said a little sharply, and turned the key in the ignition. “Then you’re sticking with us for a while.”

“At least until after Halloween,” Sam added, tossing Cas a soft smile. “I’d feel better.”

Cas’s brows knit together so tight he looked as though he could strain a muscle. But a moment later he rolled his shoulders and settled back into the seat comfortably. “Alright.”

Dean pulled the Impala onto the road, muttering under his breath. “Tourist traps, man.”

Sam watched the side mirror as the turrets and spires of the Winchester Mystery House receded behind the tall hedges. “Hey, while we’re in California, wanna swing by Disneyland?”

Dean jerked the wheel, causing Sam to drop the med kit on the floor and spilling its contents. His brother’s surprised choke and horrified expression were so worth it though.


End file.
